We, the Poets<\/p>\n
If only to sustain this one verse, with the brooding seam,
\nwith a free mind and an open heart, we become the men wading
\nrivers upstream, if only to be alive,
\nas we had never been before\u2014I will bleed unto thee
\nthis verse of purest faith.
\nA right word, the most daring challenge, this
\ntruly resembles impossibility, for words swim as
\ninfinite as the silken stars in the perpetual sky.
\nIrony sings when we believe heaven only resumes
\nwhen the darkest nights permeate and the stars
\ncreate needle holes for the dawn to peek through.
\nConversing in colours, we paint the day with renewed
\nhands; behind walls of pearls, we speak with
\nfearless breath\u2014for if the world shatters
\nand cleaves wide open, were my words the persecution,
\nor were they forged to save?
\nWe, the pillars, will build nations of tongues
\nand claim this roof of sky ours, though we
\ncannot divide its waters.
\nWe, the curtains, drawn back so the solemn
\nartistry may converge with brilliant life,
\nbleeding ink unto paper which can sting sharper
\nthan stone lest we bleed from our hearts.
\nDiscernment, unobtrusive friendship, oblivious
\nlove unconditional, true eloquence\u2014a mountain
\nof purses could never purchase these.
\nWe could pay attention to every single moment,
\nbut lose ourselves, and spend our hearts, our
\nlives, searching for who we were today.
\nWe, the written, request that our words do not
\nliken to stains upon the paper, and if we lack humility, Eternity
\nis erased from our hearts, the solitary, pure vernacular, gone.
\nSuch is life when I cannot grasp it, for I never will,
\nmy hands always amongst words to peruse.
\nHad we the pride, our words would dribble, slither
\nto the floor, merely to depart while slipping on them
\nout the door.
\nWe, the poets, are but withering grass,
\nour homes but valleys, our pens but epistolary
\nflowers fading; we are wrought of dust escorted by an unknown
\nwhirlwind, but the height of our voices
\nupon paper– they sing.
\nThese words were never our property, yet
\nbeyond the clouds, beyond the waxing garment
\nof the earth, they stand as choirs.
\nBut we, the dying, we satiate the crumbling towers of our heads
\nagainst the overwhelmingly sour;
\nwe fulfill these words, to bequeath no emptiness in them.
\nThere remains all the difficulty of those sparse of
\nImagination\u2014for they cannot see themselves think.
\nWe write what we write, hope it hold truth, and no more,
\nour light rising in obscurity; instead of the thorn and brier
\ngrows tall the myrtle tree.
\nWe, ourselves, do we break ourselves down into
\nportraits of words, and live as life allows?
\nAmong the smooth words of the stream is our portion,
\nalong every sentence a railway to new stories to be told,
\namongst every beast a dove laden with peace.
\nDeath sounds like a desk, hoping we write away our years
\nupon one. Meanwhile, this is my stride,
\nwalking away from thee, the worldly, from thee\u2014tradition.
\nThat this mirth might bloom the pigments of yielding amends,
\nthat a kiss to Your folded hand, of which no other words have
\nbeen created, may speak for every time, every season.
\nBut we, the afflicted, we are the embodiment of modesty,
\nof revelations of poetry stitched into our arms,
\nour tongues severed: we write what we cannot further say,
\nfor we are the madmen convicted by the words writing our
\nworld into motion. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
We, the Poets If only to sustain this one verse, with the brooding seam, with a free mind and an open heart, we become the men wading rivers upstream, if only to be alive, as we had never been before\u2014I will bleed unto thee this…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":281,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-11181","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-marathon-poem"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11181","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/281"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=11181"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11181\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":11213,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11181\/revisions\/11213"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=11181"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=11181"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=11181"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}